


Don't Trust a Man with More Pears Than Sense

by Skyuni123



Series: Malcontent from the Eye of the Storm [2]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Camping, Character Study, Duologue, Gen, Introspection, M/M, and more of lemony snicket giving relationship advice in a tent, except less of a comedy, it's a comedy of errors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Dear readers, as you stubbornly continue to read this story, I must warn you that its contents are not pleasant to the eye. There are no sunny days, no happy endings, and the likelihood of any sort of resolution is slim. This is not your mother’s romance, or even your father’s. The course of true love does not run smooth, and neither does the course of this story. For your sake, as well as mine, I urge you to depart for smoother climbs; whether they be a digital rendition of another fanfiction, or simply somewhere far from here.For Beatrice, ever and always,Lemony Snicket.





	

Dear readers, as you stubbornly continue to read this story, I must warn you that its contents are not pleasant to the eye. There are no sunny days, no happy endings, and the likelihood of any sort of resolution is slim. This is not your mother’s romance, or even your father’s. The course of true love does not run smooth, and neither does the course of this story. For your sake, as well as mine, I urge you to depart for smoother climbs; whether they be a digital rendition of another fanfiction, or simply somewhere far from here. Whenever it feels like things might be better; they are likely a stone’s throw from getting worse.

For Beatrice, ever and always,

Lemony Snicket.

 

-

 

Charles does not have any trouble feeling melancholic from the depths of his tent. In this case, melancholic means anything from ‘down in the dumps’ to ‘depressed’ but with a sharp turn towards the latter end of that scale because water is dripping onto his big toe.

He’s in a tent, in the middle of the Wild Woods, and it is _raining._ It is also raining inside his tent, which he suspects might be his fault. Serves him right for ‘liberating’ a tent from a passing horse and cart.

The Wild Woods is about halfway between Paltryville and Hotel Denouement. It’s taken him _weeks_ to get this far. He’s heard the saying, ‘Don’t trust a man with more pears than sense,’ but perhaps he’d have been better off if he’d heard, ‘Don’t get into a plane with a man whose lips say that he’s flying to a lavish hotel, but who’s eyes say he’s flying to an opium den in Peru.’

As such, he’d taken at least a week to get back, and the sunburn had been hellish.

But now, after bear attacks, an infestation of the Plague-Carrying Beetles, and two stomach bugs, he’s finally getting somewhere.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more sad or more damp. Losing most of one’s possessions, one’s partner, and having a hole in one’s tent does that to a man.

At least the Wild Woods are treating Charles well. He’s not seen hide nor hair of the Foultocna, the mythical Knifed Beast that roams the Wild Woods, which is one positive thing.

Just then, thunder rolls overhead and he swears that he hears something rustling outside.

If it’s the Foultocna, he’s not going to be happy.

“I’m warning you, I’m armed!” He lies, gripping his sleeping bag further around himself. His voice sounds shaky and he sounds anything but armed. (He’s not actually armed.)

“With what?” It’s a voice. A man’s voice. He doesn’t sound like the Foultocna (famously known for sounding like stones in a blender), but Charles doesn’t know for sure.

“A gun?” The high-pitched squeak at the end of his clause doesn’t exactly lend itself to complete legitimacy.

The man chuckles, in a low way that sounds more like a funeral dirge. “I’m not a murderer. Can I come in? It’s raining.”

Charles sighs, realises he’d probably be dead by this point if it was the Foultocna, and says, “Fine. Just d-don’t you try anything, you hear?”

Upon later reflection, he won’t be able to remember what the man looked like, aside from a blurry face and a weird wavy outline around his edges like some sort of mirage.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be out in the Wild Woods this time of night.” The man says, pulling off his dress shoes. “If I had walked any longer I might have encountered the Foultocna, and that would have been very upsetting. You’re a lifesaver, Charles.”

“Hardly.” After the month he’s had, ‘lifesaver’ is really not a term that fits.

“Charles.” The man says firmly.

Charles doesn’t know how the man knows his name. For all he knows, he could be dreaming this encounter. It doesn’t seem quite real. “What.”

“After playing a part in saving the Baudelaire orphans, and losing the love of your life, a compliment; however contrived and not completely well-deserved, is not something one should just scoff at.” Our author avatar says, hoping in future that his sentences will be better inscribed.

“Do you always speak like you’re quoting straight from a dictionary, or is that a new thing?” Charles asks, wondering why he seems to have a vague memory of the man sitting beside him. He doesn’t know how the stranger seems to know his life story, and he doesn’t want to know.

The tent is cramped and damp and not made for two.

“Dictionary in this case meaning ‘the limited vocabulary I have at my disposal’?” The man asks, lips quirked. He has a faint hint of a smile, but it’s barely there.

“You speak like you know exactly what is going on.”

“Maybe I do.”

Charles sighs, lets his head fall back onto his pillow and says, “Now I guess you’re not going to murder me in cold blood, can you shush? It’s the middle of the night and _some_ of us have more things to do than roam about in it.”

“Wallowing in self-pity isn’t helping anyone.” The man replies, tipping a handful of stones out of one of his shoes and looking at them with a bemused expression. “Do you know how to stop this? Every time I walk somewhere I get far too many stones in my shoes.”

“Not the point.” Charles says, as he definitely Does Not have time for this. “I’m not wallowing.”

(He’s definitely wallowing.)

(Quite literally in water, as the tent’s still leaking, but also figuratively.)

“You are wallowing.” The man continues, tipping another handful of stones out of his other shoe. “I think that I go on about my lost love an awful lot, but you’ve really beaten me this time. What are you without this man? Is this whole thing really worth it, Charles?”

He thinks for a moment. Is it really worth it? The long roads, the crying, the illness – is Sir really worth chasing after? He hardly knows where he’s going – the likelihood of Sir even being at the Hotel Denouement is so very small. His anchor, the one thing he had is gone and he doesn’t know what to do.

Charles feels very alone in the world.

“I have a suggestion. You need to distract yourself.” The man says. “You were the only kind thing that the Baudelaire children had in their lives at the Mill, and they trust you. There’s an organisation called V-“

Later, when he’s learned of the [REDACTED] and the [REDACTED] of the [REDACTED], he’s finally able to breathe again. [REDACTED] seems confusing, and complex, and a whole lot of other ‘c’ words, but he’s seen worse. He’s _felt_ worse.

“Looks like it’s stopped raining.” The man nods at him and pulls his shoes back on. “I’ve got to go.”

“It’s the middle of the night!” Charles gasps, because he’s still got something of the dutiful househusband about him and no-one deserves to go out into the Wild Woods during the dark hours.

“I appreciate your concern.” The man nods at him again. “However, this tent’s not nearly big enough for the two of us. The Foultocna will have more than enough to feast on with me, I assure you.”

“But-“

“You know what you need to do now, Charles. Please do it.” The man nods a final time and pushes past the tent’s flap without any sort of goodbye.

Charles sits and ponders for a moment. He’s damp, and alone in a forest where creatures lurk, and he suspects he’s just dreamed the last hour or so, but everything feels _less_ raw. He feels like he can do things again. He’s not just a follower any more, but someone who can help. Someone who _will_ help. His past haunts him, but it will not define him.

At first light, he’s setting off for somewhere new, and hopefully, it’ll be sunny when he gets there.

 

 

 


End file.
